


I Was Walking With a Ghost

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-08
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 18:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10814598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: He's gone, she's alone, and the poor child will grow up without knowing a father's touch. Is this all true...or might there be some hope?





	1. I Was Walking With a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Ron/Hermione  
References to: Harry/Ginny and Neville/Luna  
Yes this title is taken from the Tegan and Sarah song but it is not a songfic.

* * *

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“Ron!”_

_“Hermione, no!”_

A shrill, piercing scream rang through the entire house as Hermione shot upright; well, as upright as a nine-month pregnancy would allow. More accurately, she lurched forward into a position where she was shakily resting on her forearms and elbows, her chest heaving with fear as a cold sweat sent a tingling sensation up her spine and neck. Her characteristically wild chestnut hair now dangled in limp, damp curls at the side of her shadowed face, and her eyes seemed to be the only objects reflecting the faint strands of moonlight streaming in through the closed window.

 

It took a moment, and her raspy throat, to realize that it had been her own scream that had awakened her. She fell back on her pillow, gazing up at the blank, darkened ceiling as she regained her breath, her mind completely blank. She gazed down in front of her. In the hot summer night, she had kicked off the orange and crimson striped sheets, exposing her pale legs and large stomach, which her white tank top and black cotton shorts could no longer hope to cover. She placed her hand gingerly on her abdomen and ran her fingers lightly up and down it as she brought herself back to respiratory equilibrium.

 

Looking down at her stomach, she came to the same horrific conclusion she had been coming to night after hopeless night for the past six months. She rolled her head to the left and, not surprisingly, found the second pillow uninhabited and the sheets barely tussled, apart from what she had already done herself. Only a single silent tear rolled down her cheek; she had cried so much that she was pumped dry. All those nights she had hoped with all of her being that it was nothing more than a dream, and yet her wishes were never realized.

 

Hermione wiped away the wetness from her eyes and inhaled, her breath catching in her throat as she felt her face grow hot from trying to hold back her tears. With a substantial effort, she rolled on to her left side, still stroking her abdomen lightly, and stared straight ahead at the wall directly next to the bed. It felt wrong, but that was the only view she had been able to see for months, no longer blocked by the solid mass, usually clad in orange striped pyjamas, or a simple white shirt and boxers, or, occasionally, nothing but the sheets.

 

Hermione reached out with her right hand and ran her fingers down the empty side of the bed, retracting quickly as though she had been bitten by a spider that was hiding among the covers. She longed so desperately to be able to feel some warmth, some life there, but she knew it would never be inhabited by any such form again. She stared at the vacant pillow, her mind full of fading memories. Memories of that face, ones that she had taken for granted and now sorely regretted not burning into her mind permanently. His deep blue eyes staring softly, lovingly into hers, the smile on his freckled face as he pulled away from kissing her goodnight, the way his moppish red hair framed his long face as he slept, usually facing her, but at times on his back. She preferred him sleeping on his side, mainly because he had a tendency to snore otherwise, but she still loved seeing his profile edged in starlight, leaving a long-nosed shadow on the opposite wall.

 

Forcing herself to banish such thoughts from her mind, though it was no simple task and involved quite a bit of squeezing her eyes shut and taking deep, cleansing breaths, she finally turned away from the sight and moved onto her back before the discomfort on her spine caused her to sit up again. The added thirty or forty pounds that had locked themselves on to her stomach, hips, and thighs because of the baby she had inside only worsened her physical and emotional state, especially since she was unable to enjoy the rewards of being in a fragile condition and being waited on like royalty. She was alone, in every sense of the word, and she had nobody to rely on to run to the store at two in the morning for pickles and brownies, or to give her a back rub when every muscle in her body tensed up.

 

Right now, all Hermione would have liked was a glass of water, since her throat currently felt as though she had been living in the desert and was surviving on a diet of cactus needles. Of course, she knew that there was nobody in the kitchen at this hour, well not anymore, so she slowly climbed out of the side of her…formerly their…bed and stood up, straightening her shirt and stretching it as far over her belly as she could before it simply rolled back up to its original position. She felt the wood underneath her feet give way slightly, something she had been accustomed to for the past eight or so weeks, and crept through the house, the one that was supposed to be for a large family, as quietly as she could. Subsconsciously, she kept silent, unable to recognize that there was nobody left to wake up.

 

As she entered the darkened kitchen, which was only illuminated by the pallid yellow street lamp outside that gave it an almost sick looking atmosphere, she flicked on the light switch, squinting as her eyes became accustomed to the sudden brightness. Making her way to the sink, her hand placed instinctively on her stomach, she focused blankly on the small weeping willow that stood in the front yard, visible through the window. The wispy branches fluttered lazily in the inconsistent breezes, some of the small white flowers detaching and drifting on the crosswinds, leaving the branches emptier than they already appeared.

 

Her mind lost in the complexities of what a simple tree blowing in a simple wind could bring to her overburdened mind, Hermione grabbed a glass from the wooden cabinet next to the sink and filled it with tap water. She looked away for a moment, just to take a sip. As the water slid down to her stomach, she felt a light punch just below her navel. She pressed back against her baby as it kicked, roused from slumber by the combination of sound, motion, and distress of its poor mother. Hermione leaned against the counter, placing her glass in the sink as she pushed both hands against her stomach. Instead of a motherly smile and perhaps a light blush, the only expression that overtook Hermione was one of pain and sadness. She felt a sharp twinge in her stomach, one not caused directly by the child, but instead by the thoughts it invoked. With every slight movement, she felt as though a poison tipped knife were being forced deeper into her chest, the toxin being her own mind.

 

She knew that she would at least have a piece of him forever with this baby, but that seemed only to hurt her more, especially considering that he never even learned his wife’s exciting little secret before he was gone. What would she say when asked what happened to Daddy? How would she deal with raising a child alone, knowing that half the reason it was even in this world was gone? She stared up into the starlit sky, remembering what her own father had told her. If only she believed in wishing upon a star, she would wish against all human possibility that her child would have a father, the one it was meant to have, that would tell it stories, give it hope, make believe. It’s all she wanted, and all she knew she could never have.

 

Killing the instinct to cry again, Hermione downed the rest of her water as if it were a shot of tequila, drowning her sadness, and looked one last time out the window. For some reason, the white flower petals on the weeping willow had an almost orange cast over them, as if she were looking out the window through a reflection of somebody with red hair. She quickly dismissed it for her own faulty reasoning and walked back through the empty hallways to her bed, her eyes unable to look up from the ground at the bed as she situated herself back on the mattress, pulling the covers up to her chest. “I love you…” She whispered up to the blank, shadowed ceiling, her voice cracking slightly as she sniffed back tears and rolled onto her right side, away from the pillow.

 

If only she hadn’t decided to turn onto her side at that precise moment, if only the mattress hadn’t creaked beneath her and if only she hadn’t rustled the sheets, she may have heard, as though carried on the wind, a light breath whispering “I love you too, Hermione…” back at her.


	2. Chapter 2

I Was Walking with a Ghost

Chapter 2

 

If happiness were a tangible feeling, Hermione would be wrapped in it, as if two familiar arms were holding her in the early morning. An internal warmth and outer coolness, accompanied by a psychological sense of safety and satisfaction prevented her from waking up. She felt…exhausted to say the least, as was proven by her first three fruitless attempts to open her eyes or bring herself back to consciousness. Finally she yawned, and as she brought her hand to her mouth, her arm cut through a strange cool air pocket and the feeling around her dissipated, giving her the strength to open her eyes.

 

Slowly, gingerly she sat up, propping herself up on her elbows. Her stomach growled, not surprisingly, and she pushed herself into a full upright position as she brought her hand to her abdomen and rubbed it slowly.

 

“Good morning.”  She glanced to the left, her tired mind creating delusions that brought her to expect her husband to be sleeping next to her, his orange hair ruffled and the sheets pulled around him at strange angles. That was why it hurt her so much when her logic took over again and she remembered that the sunlight playing on the empty area was not just an illusion, that she was really alone.

 

She had little time to ponder this, as her baby decided it was hungry now and signaled to its mother with a series of kicks, bringing Hermione out of her trance. “Alright, let’s find us some breakfast.” She stepped into her midnight blue slippers and slowly made her way down the stairs to the kitchen, which was not so easy these days as she was very sore from her neck to her legs. Entering the kitchen, she picked up her wand, which was laying on the counter next to the stove, and flicked it towards the tea kettle. The kettle took to the air, filled itself with water, and came to rest on the already lit burner. With another wave, she set two pieces of bread to work toasting themselves. Sitting down at the table, she sighed, remembering those days when she could actually pull her chair all the way in and not be hindered by a stomach the size of a large beach ball. She reached across the table for a textbook with a magenta and gold bookmark in it. The cover of the book read “St. Mungo’s University for the Healing Arts: Standard Medical Spells, Level1” in gold lettering. As if reaching for a comforting friend, she pulled the tome towards her.

 

For the past few months, Hermione had been studying at the education wing of St. Mungo’s to become a registered Healer. Her university major had suddenly shifted from Arithmancy, which she chose due to its practicality and logic, to Medicinal Magic after she had become a widow and single mother-to-be. As her water boiled, she read a chapter about how to magically set bones, her wand placed carefully on the table and concentration apparent in the fact that she was biting on her bottom lip. She was just about to read how to fix a rib when a loud knock from the front door startled her.

 

“A visitor? This early?” She glanced at the clock above the sink, an analog that was shaped like witch’s hat and read the time as 11:47 AM. “Oh dear...” She had no idea that she had slept in so late, as she usually woke up by eight or nine. 

A second knock brought her to her feet and she left the book on the table as she made her way through the pale green living room and the entry way. Opening the door, she smiled at Neville standing on her porch, holding the Daily Prophet in his hand. “Good morning, Neville. Come in.” She stood aside and opened the door for him. Though a few inches taller and with a slightly receding hairline (which was unfortunate considering he was just now pushing 30) Neville was still the same as always, kind and bumbling with a broad boyish smile on his face. 

 

“Brought your paper.” As he stepped inside, Hermione thanked him and took the daily news from his hands, placing it on the kitchen table as they entered the white-walled room, which was decorated with a variety of homey touches, though not as crowded as the Burrow’s walls had been. The kettle whistled just as she took her seat again, not being able to really stand much with the constant ache in her hips.

 

She ignored the discomfort, motioning for Neville to come to the table as she slowly rose again.“Take a seat, Neville. Would you like some tea?”

 

When Neville nodded, Hermione grimaced, attempting to lift her taxed muscles to grab some mugs, but he raised a halting hand, insisting on doing it himself and allowing her to relax. As he was pouring the tea, Hermione closed her book and pushed it back to the corner of the table. “Nice of you to stop by. How’s Luna doing?” 

 

“She’s fine, watching the twins.” He grabbed the toast as the toaster (one of the Muggle conveniences that Hermione had retained) dinged to signal it was done. Delivering the plate of toast and the tea, Neville sat across from her with a smile on his face. 

 

“Arthur started sparking from the fingers last night, and Artemis actually started reading some spell words.” He beamed, obviously proud of his three year olds. Hermione knew it hadn’t been his choice to name his children Arthur and Artemis, Artie and Arty for short, but Luna had been adamant about it after reading that giving twins similar names would confuse Cradle Robbing Pixies that might just want to take one of them away. 

 

“That’s brilliant. I’m so happy for you two.” She was, too. Well, on the outside. On the inside she felt a sense of utter loneliness, brought on by the fact that her baby would never reap the benefit of having an overly proud father bragging about it, smiling goofily at something so basic as saying a simple Latin word. But regardless, she still smiled as she drank her tea, eyeing one of her two closest…only friends left.

 

Neville’s smile turned to a look of compassion and concern, something Hermione noticed with immediate unease. . 

 

“How have you been holding up?”  A light sigh from Hermione was enough to preemptively demonstrate that no matter what she said, she was not all fine.

 

 “It’s been a little difficult, I admit. These past few days I’ve been so sore, it’s been just awful. And…” She dropped her voice subconsciously as if out of respect for the dead. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Ron.” She sat back and ran her hand along her stomach, feeling her baby moving around inside as she ate her toast. “This baby is going to be born in a few days, I can feel it. And I just don’t know if I’m emotionally ready yet. I know it’s been over eight months and by all standard logic I should at least have been able to pull myself together by now and…“

 

 “Hermione, there’s no logic involved when something like this happens.” He reached over and patted her forearm gently in a friendly gesture. “You’ve been through Hell and back, and you’ve held your own brilliantly. You’ve had so much loss, but you’re still able to think of what you have to gain.” He motioned to her stomach and gave her a comforting smile. If the years had done anything for him, it had given him at least a little insight into the world and the people in it, especially his friends. “Besides, you’re having a baby, it’s normal to be emotional.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m just glad that I was lucky enough to find such wonderful godparents like you and Luna.”  She shifted her gaze momentarily to the kitchen window, looking at that willow tree again. It seemed almost less droopy than it was the night before, but that could just be her perspective on it.

 

“Anytime. How’s old Neville Jr. coming along anyway?” He cast a joking grin at her and winked playfully.

 

“Very funny. You know very well I’m not naming this baby Neville if it’s a boy…” Neville chimed in as they spoke in unison. “The baby’s name will be Ronald Harry Granger-Weasley.” Hermione gave him one of those ‘You’re still a child aren’t you?’ looks, but couldn’t help chuckling. “That’s right.”

 

“And what if it’s a girl? You’ve never told me that.”

 

Hermione stirred her tea, thinking for a moment. “I hadn’t really considered it. I suppose I will name her after Ginny, or perhaps after her grandmothers.” She closed her eyes momentarily, trying not to think about those three women, none of which were currently alive to see their soon to be grandchild, or in Ginny's case, niece or nephew.

 

Neville finished up his tea silently. His mind had drifted to the thought of Ginny when Hermione spoke of her. He had always liked her, and they had dated briefly about six years back, though it really wasn’t meant to be. He had moved on, and by the time she had died, Neville and Luna had already gotten married and were the parents of two young children, though Neville knew he would always have a soft spot for the red haired girl in his heart. Finally, he stood up and brought his mug to the sink. “I should get going. I had to run to the store, but I figured I should drop by and see how my favorite genius friend is doing.” 

            Hermione smiled, pushing herself into a standing position. “It was great to see you again.” She walked him to the door and gave him a hug before he left, which was a little awkward because she had to lean so far forward to get her arms around him. 

“Same here, Hermione. Take care of yourself. And remember, as soon as you think that baby’s coming, you let us know and we’ll Apparate right over.” He gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek and waved goodbye to her, rubbing her stomach in a loving sort of way.

 

“I will. Say hello to Luna for me.” She waved to him as she closed the door and returned to the kitchen to finish her breakfast and read the paper.

 

Meanwhile, Neville walked down the front path of their home, on the way to the store. As he passed by their mailbox, which Hermione still used to keep up with some of her Muggle friends, he waved to a very nearly transparent red headed figure that was leaning against it. “Afternoon, Ron.” 

 

He placed his hands in his pockets and whistled as he turned right down the sidewalk, his mind only beginning to work after a few seconds. Stopping in his tracks, he did a double take, looking over his shoulder, but nobody was there. Confused, Neville shook his head and continued down the street. “I need to stop reading all those ghost stories that Luna shows me…”


End file.
